


Idiot

by Aaron_The_8th_Demon



Series: Holding [14]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: And it turned into angst instead, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bookended with relationship fluff, M/M, This was supposed to be porn, god dammit, mentions of internalized homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-23 18:47:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18555649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aaron_The_8th_Demon/pseuds/Aaron_The_8th_Demon
Summary: Patrice pulls him over and wraps completely around him like a blanket, given that he’s curled himself into a ball. They don’t say anything to each other for a very long time - and mostly, that’s because Brad can feel Patrice trying so, so hard not to cry, and he knows if he talks that’s what will end up happening. It hurts. It hurts knowing that he’s shared this, and the information is breaking something inside of this wonderful man that he loves. Brad hates himself right now for it. This isn’t what he wanted.





	Idiot

**Author's Note:**

> I have the exact same problem as another writer for this pairing who shall go unnamed (if you're reading this, you know who you are, yes it's you that I'm referring to :D ) in that EVERYTHING I TOUCH TURNS TO ANGST. Seriously, this honest to god started out with me trying to write porn. I should've known better because that has never worked out in the past.
> 
> Also before anybody freaks out, seeing the "angst/hurt/comfort" tag along with the explicit rating, no there is no rape or sexual assault in this fic. If there was it would be tagged.

“So… that was pretty dumb,” Patrice remarks as they leave the movie theater.

“Yup,” Brad agrees before chugging what’s left of his soda. He pegs it into a nearby trash can. “Now you know why I don’t go out to see movies much. I usually wait for it to come to Netflix, then if it sucks I can just turn it off.”

“If you hated it that much, you could’ve said something,” his friend points out. “I wasn’t really enjoying it either, I would’ve left with you.”

After being in an air-conditioned building, the sun is making Brad start to sweat even though he’s only been outside for forty five seconds. “We should get ice cream.”

“But it’s bad for us,” Patrice frowns.

“It’s fucking July, Bergy. One ice cream cone isn’t going to make you morbidly obese or whatever,” Brad laughs.

Patrice doesn’t put up much of a fight (he never does) and they go looking for ice cream. Chocolate chip cookie dough for Brad and strawberry for Patrice; they hang out under some trees so that it won’t melt before they can finish eating it. Of course, Brad also has an ulterior motive for getting Patrice to spend time with him like this - he gathers his courage and checks around to make sure there’s nobody filming them on cell phone cameras.

“So remember back in 2013?”

Patrice looks at him sideways. “Which part of 2013?”

“The end of the season, when you decided to crush my spirit.”

“Oh…” Now his friend looks guilty. “Brad… you know why I said what I said back then. And why are you bringing it up _now?_ ”

“Because my career’s not at risk anymore. That’s like, the main reason I remember you giving, that it could fuck me over and make them trade me because it makes people uncomfortable or some shit.”

He doesn’t want to get confrontational over this. That’s kind of the opposite of what he’s going for, actually. But it’s only now Brad realizes how bad of an idea this probably was when he put it in motion this morning. Because if Patrice rejects him again, this time they’re in public and then he’s going to freak out and it _will_ get filmed on cell phone cameras.

“I thought you got over that…” Patrice mutters. Brad thinks he’d see a more pleasant expression on someone who just got shot in the lung.

“You’re not easy to get over, Pat.” He tries to keep his voice quiet. He wants to be calm. “Okay, if you’re not interested in me than you gotta change your behavior, because usually it seems like you regret saying that to me but right now you’re acting like I stabbed your mother.”

“Of course I regret saying it,” Patrice answers after an uncomfortable pause. “It just seemed like… at the time… Brad, you’re so talented, but you were always getting in trouble back then. I thought I was doing the right thing, okay? I didn’t want to give them an excuse to toss you. So I… I chose to hurt both of us because at least then you’d still be on the same team as me. I figured there’d be time later on, or that you’d be more persistent about it. But this past season’s only the second one where you didn’t get yourself into trouble, and you kept not saying anything, so I just thought…”

They stop talking long enough to finish their ice cream, which is dribbling down their hands. They stay leaning against the tree even once they’re done eating the cones.

“I’m better than I used to be,” Brad murmurs after making eye contact again. “And no, I never got over it. Why the hell else do you think I get fighting majors when guys hit you? I don’t do that for anyone else. Or at least not every single time it happens to them.”

Patrice just looks back at him without saying anything for awhile - guilt and remorse and longing war with each other in his expression. Eventually he takes a deep breath and speaks. “I’m sorry I hurt you back then, Brad… it seems like you’re giving me another chance, though, so… I’m not going to make that mistake again. I never got over it, either.”

Brad grins, relieved. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

They don’t kiss, even though Brad knows they both want to, because they’re still in public so tabloids. Nobody else gets to know about this until they decide it’s time. But Brad does pull him over for a hug. “So when do I get to start bringing you on dates and shit?”

“Wasn’t this a date?” Patrice asks, sounding confused.

“Uh… I guess you can call it that, we kinda did stuff today that people do on dates.”

“This should be our first date,” Patrice decides. “Everyone’s going to ask about it and what kind of over-the-top grand gesture you made, so imagine how surprising it’ll be when we say we just went to a movie and had ice cream.”

Brad chuckles fondly. “I knew someday you’d embrace your inner troll, Bergy.”

They walk back to Patrice’s apartment with the intent to hash out how this whole “relationship” thing is going to work, another thing that they don’t want to do in public. Climbing up the stairs, Brad looks him over - he has a nice back, he has a nice ass, he has a nice _everything._ Patrice Bergeron is fucking perfect. Of course Brad already knew all of that, but he’s paying extra attention right now. Besides this, somehow Patrice is still exactly as good-looking and clean as when they left to go to the movies, where Brad is sweating bullets under his tee and his shorts are sticking to his legs.

They sit at the kitchen table with glasses of ice water. “When do you want to tell the team?” Patrice asks, leaning back in his chair.

“I don’t know. I think we shouldn’t tell everyone all at once. Just Z and Cassidy once the preseason starts, then later we can tell the rest of the team. We can, like, come out officially on Pride Night if everything goes well,” Brad offers. He’s not always great at planning, but this seems like what Patrice is looking for.

“They might want us to make a video for You Can Play,” Patrice points out. “There’s also going to be some backlash, even if it’s just a little bit. Other players from other teams might go after you…”

“Yeah, okay. Because other players from other teams don’t _already_ fucking go after me for other bullshit reasons,” Brad snorts. He knocks back his water. “I’m not scared of them.”

“I know you’re not,” Patrice smiles. “There isn’t much that scares you.”

“I get scared when you’re hurt,” Brad argues quietly. “I always think that someday you’ll get hurt so bad you won’t be able to keep playing. You’ll have to retire early because you’re too busted up…”

Patrice reaches across the table for Brad’s hands; his palms are dry and warm, and Brad likes the feeling even being too hot. It’s kind of the same as making a play together on the ice, because there’s no communication of any kind between them - they’re just acting in sync as they both get up so that there isn’t a table between them and they can finally kiss. Patrice tastes like strawberry ice cream and popcorn, and Brad’s still too hot but he doesn’t care anymore because if they just melt together into a puddle on the floor he’d be perfectly happy with it.

After a few moments they part, but just barely; their foreheads rest together and they’re sharing breaths. “Can I get all sappy and shit for a second?” Brad murmurs.

Patrice smiles. “Go ahead.”

“Love at first sight isn’t real, but… this is kind of close, because I don’t really remember not being in love with you,” he admits. “I tried to date other people to make it go away, but it never did.”

“That’s okay,” Patrice answers, kissing him briefly on his mouth and then on the end of his nose. “I did the same thing for awhile. I’m not proud of myself for what I said the first time, but I’m glad you didn’t get over it, because now I’ve got you. I wanted this the whole time but I was scared I’d ruin your career. I love you so much, Brad, and… it feels so good that I can finally say it.”

They’re both wearing watery smiles, because Patrice is crying happy tears and it’s making Brad cry, too. Neither of them is ashamed of this fact. They’re seen each other cry before (several times, actually) and in a locked apartment there’s nobody else around to intrude on them. Brad wipes under Patrice’s eyes with the pads of his thumbs and then they’re kissing again, a little more intense and hungry. He lets himself yield, lets himself be led. Patrice lightly presses him into a wall, hands on his waist; Brad loops his arms around Patrice’s neck in response.

Patrice pushes slightly closer so their growing hard-ons rub together through their clothes and Brad gasps a little against his mouth. Fingers, shy, now running up his flanks like Patrice thinks he’ll explode under even a tiny amount of pressure. Well… okay, Brad probably _will_ explode, just not in a literal sense. Every light touch is already its own detonation across his nerves. Brad rearranges his arms to pull Patrice closer in by the shoulders.

God, he hopes this goes further - maybe his impulsive behavior will rub off a little on Patrice just this once, and Patrice won’t over-think things and put a stop to it, and _oh fuck yes keep touching me there…_ maybe he will get his wish, after all.

Brad grinds into the palm that’s inconveniently separated by the fabric of his basketball shorts, thinking how stupid clothes are and wanting skin contact. But whatever. This will do for now. Or something. Fuck. Brad can’t think.

Or maybe he can… well, some part of him is doing the thinking, it just definitely isn’t his brain. Brad turns them both so Patrice is against the wall instead, undoing his pants and then immediately sinking down to start sucking him off. Brad can’t help evaluating… he thinks he’s a little thicker than Patrice, and there’s about an inch difference in length. Someone told him about that, once. He doesn’t remember who. Just a word: disproportionate. He’s “disproportionate” to his height, or something, because he’s not very tall. Obviously, he’s received no complaints about this.

Patrice’s hands find Brad’s shoulders, and there’s a moan - shocked-pleased-hungry - which goes right to his dick. Honestly, Brad doesn’t even think he’d mind that much if Patrice doesn’t return the favor, because he’s been thinking about this for years and years and fucking _years_ : how it would be to give a blow job to Patrice Bergeron. Probably amazing. So far, it is. Brad knows what he’s doing.

Then, weirdly, Patrice is pulling on his hair and asking him to stop.

“What is it? Are you okay?”

“I was gonna…” Patrice gasps out, breathing too hard to talk normally.

“Uh… that’s the idea?” Brad frowns.

“But weren’t you going to fuck me?”

Brad never hears Patrice swear to begin with, but this - using fuck as a verb and saying the two of them should do so - is beyond unexpected. He feels his eyebrows raise without his permission.

“I didn’t know you wanted me to, but if you do then I will,” he offers, trying and probably failing to downplay his giddiness at the idea. “Um. Like. Do you have supplies?”

“Yeah.”

Brad nods. “Okay, then, if you’re sure.”

Patrice mimics his nod and Brad stands up; he’s got enough wood to build a really nice set of dining room furniture, probably. Then they’re changing location, a bedroom with a comfy mattress which Brad will soon be nailing Patrice to. That’s something he never thought he’d get to think outside of fantasies. Patrice points him to a drawer after helpfully lying down, and Brad goes for the stuff they’ll need.

Insert immediate problem.

“Um. Pat.”

“Yeah.”

Okay. So. Brad’s literally never had a reason to be upset about this before. But every other time besides this, he knew in advance (or at least had good reason to believe) that sex would be taking place, and was smart enough to supply his own rubbers. Now he’s left holding up the box in a stupor.

“These. Like. Uh, they won’t fit.”

Patrice frowns, as if that doesn’t make sense. “They won’t? Are you sure?”

“I’ve broken these before. They’re too small.”

“Oh.” A nervous pause. “Well then… would you let me - instead?”

And Brad’s a dumbass, so he nods before the part of him that’s actually capable of rational thought can catch up. Which just makes it so fucking embarrassing, as they’re switching places, that Patrice notices him starting to panic.

“Have you not done this before?”

“It’s been awhile,” Brad admits. He doesn’t think he wants to get into that topic right now.

Except Patrice is looking at him funny. “Are you sure you’re really okay?”

“Yes,” Brad nods, trying to stop freaking out.

That just makes Patrice get alarmed. “Brad. It really looks like you don’t want me to do this. You don’t… you don’t owe me, or anything, okay? I’m not going to force you into anything.”

“I know you won’t,” he mumbles, feeling more stupid than usual. At the expression he receives, Brad, for once, is the one with the heaving, exasperated sigh. “No, okay? The answer’s no, nobody else ever did, either. You can stop thinking that.”

It’s… really embarrassing. They didn’t even get that far. Brad’s still completely dressed, Patrice sets everything aside and does up his pants, because he’s not going to to let this go and in the span of ten seconds the mood has been completely killed. For fuck’s sake.

“You need to tell me what happened,” Patrice insists, looking uncharacteristically murderous. “Just in case I need to go break someone’s face.”

“You don’t, Pat. I promise. That’s not it,” Brad assures him. He sits up on the bed and hugs his knees. “So. Uh. It was my first year in Providence. I didn’t really know how the real world works. And. My family was really nice about it when I came out and shit. So were most of my friends. Like, I knew homophobia’s a thing, but it was something that happened to other people. And. I met this guy. I really liked him. Um. He was a few years older than me, but not that much. Everyone always thinks women are the only ones who end up equating sex with love. I didn’t know any better at the time. This guy… he wasn’t mean about it or anything, but he only ever wanted to be ‘on top.’ I didn’t mind so much until I found out he was actually married. I was a side thing. So I yelled at him about it and got all pissed off, and he just said. Like. It’s only gay if you’re on the receiving end. And I felt so fucking betrayed. I don’t know how I managed to not clock him right there. So. I mean. There’s bad memories attached, sure, but it’s not because he made me. I just didn’t know how to separate the two things at the time. But it reminds me of him. So I stopped doing that. Because I was too young to know better, and he couldn’t be okay with who he was so he picked me because I was vulnerable. I mean, he probably didn’t do it on purpose, or whatever. But it still makes me feel too vulnerable, you know?”

Patrice pulls him over and wraps completely around him like a blanket, given that he’s curled himself into a ball. They don’t say anything to each other for a very long time - and mostly, that’s because Brad can feel Patrice trying so, so hard not to cry, and he knows if he talks that’s what will end up happening. It hurts. It hurts knowing that he’s shared this, and the information is breaking something inside of this wonderful man that he loves. Brad hates himself right now for it. This isn’t what he wanted.

Finally, Patrice gently kisses the side of his neck. “I wouldn’t _ever_ do that to you, Bradley. And I still kind of want to find this guy and break his face.”

Brad snorts, self-depreciating. “But I’m the violent impulsive one.”

“What he did still wasn’t okay. Especially since he got away with it.”

“Actually he didn’t. This was before iPhones, so his cell didn’t have a password on it and I got into his contacts. The whole time I was screaming at him, his phone was on speaker, conveniently hidden between the microwave and the toaster. His wife heard _everything._ ”

“How did the media not find out about this?”

“I was still a nobody back then… plus, it would’ve ruined his career, too. I think he just ended up quietly getting divorced and he gave up all kinds of shit to keep her quiet. Apparently it worked… I never heard anything about it after, anyway.”

Patrice kisses his temple and the spot above his ear, then rests a cheek on Brad’s hair. “I hate that this happened to you.”

“I know you do. It was just… a really tough learning experience.”

Patrice rubs a palm along Brad’s arm. “We don’t have to try this ever again if you don’t want. I don’t even know what I was thinking when we were in the kitchen, I just…”

“Pat. Stop. This isn’t your fault. I’m not mad. And you were probably thinking something like, ‘we’ve already known each other for like, a decade, and seen each other naked tons of times, and know everything about each other, so fucking is the next logical step.’ Right? Something like that?”

A muffled snort. “Yeah. Something like that.”

“Bro. I’m the most impulsive fucking dumbass in probably all of Boston. I don’t get to be mad at you for doing something impulsive for once. Sometimes impulsive things are really fun. This just happened to not be. That’s not on you.”

Patrice sniffles quietly. “Okay.”

“Please don’t cry, Pat. It makes me cry whenever you start crying, remember?”

“Yeah. I know. I’m doing my best.” A kiss to the top of his head. “You’re so small like this, without all your pads… I just want you to be okay, and it hurts me when you aren’t. I know we didn’t even know each other back then, but I wish we did. Maybe I could’ve helped.”

“You’re helping now,” Brad assures him. It’s so stupid and so fucking inappropriate, but for Brad there’s almost nothing else except for the stupid and inappropriate, so: “And I’m not that small. Those condoms still won’t fit me.”

“Idiot,” Patrice answers in a tone that’s trying to growl but is much too loving to pull it off.

“Yeah, but I’m your idiot now,” Brad points out.

“You’d think, with how often everyone says I’m perfect, that I’d have better taste in boyfriend material.”

Brad laughs. “You need my insanity to balance out your perfection.”

“Yeah. That sounds about right.”

And things feel okay again. Brad is able to uncurl and they just end up cuddling for the rest of the afternoon until they get hungry. He thinks he likes this better anyway. If they’d rushed into sex, lingering emotional damage aside, he’d probably feel guilty later on because Patrice really deserves more than the frantic clumsiness that would’ve inevitably taken place. It’s going to happen, probably very soon, but even though he’s not great at it Brad will try to do a plan. He wants it to be something nice, because Patrice has to put up with his stupidity eight months out of the year and deserves to have Brad make it special for him.

“What’re you thinking about?” Patrice wonders as they have salads for dinner to balance out all the popcorn and ice cream from earlier.

“You,” Brad grins.

“Does that happen often?”

“What, me thinking about you?”

“No, you thinking at all,” Patrice teases.

“Nah, it’s special. You’re the only one who ever gets thoughts. Everything else just gets whatever feels right at the time and we deal with the blast radius afterwards.”

“Trust me, I know,” Patrice replies dryly. “You leave so much collateral damage.”

“I swear it’s not on purpose.”

“Bradley Kevin.”

“Okay, so _sometimes_ it’s on purpose,” he corrects. Then he offers his most charming smile. “But you still love me, right?”

“For some reason,” his boyfriend laughs. “Like you said earlier, you’re _my_ idiot.”

“I’m definitely your idiot. And I’m okay with admitting it, because you’re so amazing it just makes me stupider.”

Patrice makes a face. “How does that even work?”

Brad just shrugs and they both end up laughing.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just going to say it: I don't really like this fic that much. It didn't do what I wanted it to. I'm putting it up anyway in case somebody out there likes it.
> 
> Also, in case anyone wants to say anything about how stretchy or whatever condoms are in reference to what Brad says/thinks in this fic, here's the thing: I have PERSONALLY WITNESSED THEM BREAKING. Or failing that, being tight enough to, ahem, restrict circulation. There is a REASON why they come in different sizes. It's not made up. I am a guy and I have a boyfriend. It really is a thing. That being said, they do come in different sizes, and you have no excuse. Condoms are wonderful things and they exist for a reason. They're there for your safety (and make cleanup a little easier lol).


End file.
